In 2008, millions of us were thrilled to elect Barack Obama, who had campaigned for president on the theme of “change.” As we approach the midterm elections on November 2, two years into his presidency, complete with Democratic “control” of both houses of Congress, many of us are deeply disappointed by the slow rate of change that has actually been achieved. The media (and not just Fox “News”) constantly talk about the ascendancy of the Tea Party nutjobs. The Republican minority in the Senate have successfully blocked and watered down every attempt at progressive legislation. President Obama has backtracked on gay rights, continuing to support homophobic policies even when the courts strike them down. The Guántanamo Bay torture facility remains open. And the list goes on. It feels as if in the ongoing “battle” for the soul of the United States of America, we who believe in equality and justice are losing. Where is all this change we were promised?
So this seems like a good time for a little reflection on political and social change, taking the arbitrary period of my life as a convenient unit of measurement.
I was born in 1969, a couple of months before a police raid on the Stonewall Inn, a gay bar on Christopher Street in New York, set off riots led by angry transgender people and launched the modern American gay rights movement. About a week ago, a gay man was again attacked at the Stonewall, part of what feels like an epidemic of homophobia spreading around the country this month. But this time, the bashers were arrested, not the gays. Carl Paladino, candidate for governor of New York and his right-wing rabbi friend, to name just a couple, continue to spew homophobic venom, but they have truly become the fringe, not the mainstream. I advertise my affiliations with gay organizations on my resume, and walk around New York wearing my Gay Games t-shirts.
Don’t get me wrong. I want the right to get married, and the right to join the military, and generally to be treated as a full citizen. I don’t wear those t-shirts in the Bronx. And I am deeply disappointed and angry with the Democratic Party in general and with President Obama in particular for their continued homophobia. But there is no denying that we have made huge strides—in the right direction!—in a relatively short time.
In 1969, my parents were one year out of college. They met at a perfectly good state school. At that time, if my mother had wanted to attend Brown University, where I enrolled 17 years later, she would have been politely directed to its “sister” school, Pembroke College. A woman’s place (at least a white middle-class woman’s place) was still in the home, not in the Ivy League. Professional women in offices were still a rarity. Abortion was illegal in most states.
Brown now has an African-American woman president. We almost elected a woman as president of the United States in 2008. There are more women than men in colleges and universities across the country. This is not to say that everything is rosy. There is still a glass ceiling in business, though a little higher than it used to be, and mainstream American culture remains disturbingly sexist. But again, the debate has shifted tremendously in four decades, such that the kind of overt sexism that so many people love to watch on Mad Men is no longer publicly espoused in most places. Even the word “feminist” after suffering from serious backlash since the 1980s, seems to be making a comeback as right-wing women try to claim it as their own.
In 1969, legal racial segregation had been abolished, but de facto segregation and discrimination was still the status quo. Cities fought over court-ordered busing to desegregate schools. One Black family moving into a neighborhood would destroy housing values, and white flight to the suburbs was in full force. Remember the Jeffersons? The whole idea of a Black family living in a Park Avenue apartment was so weird that it was the premise of a sitcom.
OK, I live on the Upper East Side, and the black and brown faces on Park Avenue still mostly work there, they don’t live there. And cities across the country remain amazingly segregated. But overt racism is no longer acceptable in polite company, and certainly is not acceptable in politics. This is a profound cultural shift. And of course, there’s that president we’re so disappointed in. The election of an African-American president is obviously not proof of the end of racism, but it is HUGE nonetheless.
So what’s my point? We have achieved so much, everything is so much better than it used to be, so we should stop complaining? Absolutely not! The world—and this country in particular—continues to be a profoundly unjust place. Immigrants and Muslims (code for Arabs) currently play the role previously occupied by African Americans, Jews, Irish… name your minority, depending on the time and place you choose. Vilification of the Other continues to be a favored way to play on people’s fear in order to gain political power. And I will save my rant about economic justice for another post.
But we need to recognize and celebrate how far we have come. We should learn from our parents and grandparents who made the change happen. And we should draw strength from the successes of the recent past to keep working toward making the world a place we want to live in.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
Compromise
When I learned yesterday that Terry Jones, the crazy preacher in Florida with big plans for a Quran-burning ceremony to mark September 11 and Feisal Abdul Rauf, the imam with big plans to build a Muslim-led interfaith community center in Lower Manhattan had reached a compromise, I was disappointed and appalled. The compromise is that Cordoba House will be built somewhere else, and in exchange, the Quran burning will be called off. To me, this seems like a massive victory for the forces of intolerance and hatred. I won’t go over all the reasons why I think not only that Cordoba House has an unqualified right to exist on Park Place, but also that it would be a great idea and a wonderful addition to the neighborhood and the city—I’m sure that most people reading this agree with me already.
I am having second thoughts, however, about my feelings about the compromise. We live in a world in which the most extreme positions seem to be the only ones that get attention. In this case, my own position on Cordoba House can perhaps be placed on the extreme end: Over the last few months, every time I heard someone say something like, “of course they have a legal right to build it wherever they want, but they should not build a mosque so close to Ground Zero out of consideration for the feelings of others,” I was enraged. And I still am. It is pure unadulterated racism to associate the attack on the World Trade Center with Islam. To feel offended or troubled by seeing a prominent Muslim building so close to this “hallowed ground” can only be based on ignorance and xenophobia, and I refuse to acknowledge the legitimacy of these feelings. To do so would be to compromise my principles.
Oops, there’s that word. Compromise. Sometimes, negotiation means that two (or more) people get together, talk sincerely about their principles and interests, and find that there is in fact overlap. They come to an agreement, and everyone walks away happy, having resolved their conflict without giving up anything truly important. But that isn’t really a compromise. Compromise is when one or both sides cannot or will not accept the legitimacy of the other’s position—and yet still agree to give a little, to compromise their principles, in order to achieve some other goal—perhaps a more important principle. This appears to be exactly what happened yesterday. So maybe we should be applauding both sides.
Imagine if the principle of compromise were put in action in other situations. One situation I’m thinking about is the talks that have just begun, again, between Israel and the Palestinian Authority. Everyone is all nicey-nicey so far. Sooner or later, though, one of the questions that will come up is Jerusalem. I imagine how this negotiation might progress. The two sides will agree on the principle of a two-state solution, and will start drawing lines. They’ll go back forth over the lines in the Galilee and along the whole border between the West Bank and Israel. They can get this far without too many people having to seriously compromise their principles. But eventually they’ll reach Jerusalem. They’ll put East Jerusalem on one side and West Jerusalem on the other. They’ll argue over the dividing lines, but they’ll get there—again, mostly without having to give up anything that truly makes either side feel aggrieved.
Then they’ll get to the Old City, and things will get a lot stickier. Maybe they’ll even divide up the Old City—putting the Muslim Quarter in Palestine and the Jewish Quarter in Israel. But they will eventually reach that one spot, where the Dome of the Rock stands atop the ruins of the ancient Temple, and it will no longer be possible to divide things up. Both sides believe they have an absolute right—given by G-d, no less—to absolute sovereignty over this little piece of land. There is no way to reach a settlement without one or both sides saying, “Even though your claim on this piece of ground is absolutely illegitimate and outrageous, I am willing to compromise my values in pursuit of a higher principle; living in peace with you is that important.” I hope that someday, the leaders of Israel and Palestine will exhibit the wisdom of Feisal Abdul Rauf and make that compromise.
Eid Mubarak.
[UPDATE: It appears that the news I heard was premature—Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf now says he has not agreed to move Cordoba House and Pastor Terry Jones now says he has not yet called off the Quran burning. So perhaps we have to view the “compromise” as a fictional parable. The lesson still stands.]
I am having second thoughts, however, about my feelings about the compromise. We live in a world in which the most extreme positions seem to be the only ones that get attention. In this case, my own position on Cordoba House can perhaps be placed on the extreme end: Over the last few months, every time I heard someone say something like, “of course they have a legal right to build it wherever they want, but they should not build a mosque so close to Ground Zero out of consideration for the feelings of others,” I was enraged. And I still am. It is pure unadulterated racism to associate the attack on the World Trade Center with Islam. To feel offended or troubled by seeing a prominent Muslim building so close to this “hallowed ground” can only be based on ignorance and xenophobia, and I refuse to acknowledge the legitimacy of these feelings. To do so would be to compromise my principles.
Oops, there’s that word. Compromise. Sometimes, negotiation means that two (or more) people get together, talk sincerely about their principles and interests, and find that there is in fact overlap. They come to an agreement, and everyone walks away happy, having resolved their conflict without giving up anything truly important. But that isn’t really a compromise. Compromise is when one or both sides cannot or will not accept the legitimacy of the other’s position—and yet still agree to give a little, to compromise their principles, in order to achieve some other goal—perhaps a more important principle. This appears to be exactly what happened yesterday. So maybe we should be applauding both sides.
Imagine if the principle of compromise were put in action in other situations. One situation I’m thinking about is the talks that have just begun, again, between Israel and the Palestinian Authority. Everyone is all nicey-nicey so far. Sooner or later, though, one of the questions that will come up is Jerusalem. I imagine how this negotiation might progress. The two sides will agree on the principle of a two-state solution, and will start drawing lines. They’ll go back forth over the lines in the Galilee and along the whole border between the West Bank and Israel. They can get this far without too many people having to seriously compromise their principles. But eventually they’ll reach Jerusalem. They’ll put East Jerusalem on one side and West Jerusalem on the other. They’ll argue over the dividing lines, but they’ll get there—again, mostly without having to give up anything that truly makes either side feel aggrieved.
Then they’ll get to the Old City, and things will get a lot stickier. Maybe they’ll even divide up the Old City—putting the Muslim Quarter in Palestine and the Jewish Quarter in Israel. But they will eventually reach that one spot, where the Dome of the Rock stands atop the ruins of the ancient Temple, and it will no longer be possible to divide things up. Both sides believe they have an absolute right—given by G-d, no less—to absolute sovereignty over this little piece of land. There is no way to reach a settlement without one or both sides saying, “Even though your claim on this piece of ground is absolutely illegitimate and outrageous, I am willing to compromise my values in pursuit of a higher principle; living in peace with you is that important.” I hope that someday, the leaders of Israel and Palestine will exhibit the wisdom of Feisal Abdul Rauf and make that compromise.
Eid Mubarak.
[UPDATE: It appears that the news I heard was premature—Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf now says he has not agreed to move Cordoba House and Pastor Terry Jones now says he has not yet called off the Quran burning. So perhaps we have to view the “compromise” as a fictional parable. The lesson still stands.]
Thursday, September 9, 2010
לשנה טובה
I don’t consider myself a religious person, but I like to take the opportunity of a new year to step back, take stock, think about how I’m living my life. And as with the new year that falls in January, I have a tendency to make resolutions, most of which don't last very long. So here’s what I’m thinking about on this first day of 5771.
I’ve read several articles recently about studies that have shown that our 21st Century compunction to be connected, available, in contact with everyone all the time may actually have a detrimental effect on our cognitive abilities. It seems to be related not just to the shortening attention spans that we’ve been hearing about since the dawn of time, but to the need for our minds to have some down time. If every time we have thirty free seconds, we’re checking email or playing games, or… or whatever it is that we’re doing, then our brains don’t have the time to process all the information that’s been coming in. Or something like that.
And I’m pretty sure I’m very near the top of the constantly connected curve. I wake up each morning to NPR, and immediately check my email on my iPhone. As I drink my morning coffee, I continue listening to the radio while I read email, check Facebook, surf the net. I make sure to download the New York Times to the phone so that I’ll have something to read on the subway, and then it’s off to work. The only time I’m awake and completely free of electronic communication on most days is while I’m swimming—perhaps another way in which those 90 minutes a few times a week keep me from insanity.
I’m not sure if my connectedness is really hurting my ability to reason: it’s very hard do a control experiment on such a question, and I can’t be bothered to try. But I do know that when I make the time to meditate for 20 minutes, I feel more grounded and able to face the world. And I remember how great I felt after a yoga retreat a year ago, when I was mostly off the grid for four or five days—and how much I loved the silent mornings in particular.
So my main goal for 5771 is to be more present by being just a little bit less present. I will occasionally turn off my phone for a while. Maybe I’ll even work my way up to leaving the apartment without it. I will occasionally be at home without the radio or TV keeping me company. Please be patient with me if it takes a little longer to get a reply to your next text message.
I’ve read several articles recently about studies that have shown that our 21st Century compunction to be connected, available, in contact with everyone all the time may actually have a detrimental effect on our cognitive abilities. It seems to be related not just to the shortening attention spans that we’ve been hearing about since the dawn of time, but to the need for our minds to have some down time. If every time we have thirty free seconds, we’re checking email or playing games, or… or whatever it is that we’re doing, then our brains don’t have the time to process all the information that’s been coming in. Or something like that.
And I’m pretty sure I’m very near the top of the constantly connected curve. I wake up each morning to NPR, and immediately check my email on my iPhone. As I drink my morning coffee, I continue listening to the radio while I read email, check Facebook, surf the net. I make sure to download the New York Times to the phone so that I’ll have something to read on the subway, and then it’s off to work. The only time I’m awake and completely free of electronic communication on most days is while I’m swimming—perhaps another way in which those 90 minutes a few times a week keep me from insanity.
I’m not sure if my connectedness is really hurting my ability to reason: it’s very hard do a control experiment on such a question, and I can’t be bothered to try. But I do know that when I make the time to meditate for 20 minutes, I feel more grounded and able to face the world. And I remember how great I felt after a yoga retreat a year ago, when I was mostly off the grid for four or five days—and how much I loved the silent mornings in particular.
So my main goal for 5771 is to be more present by being just a little bit less present. I will occasionally turn off my phone for a while. Maybe I’ll even work my way up to leaving the apartment without it. I will occasionally be at home without the radio or TV keeping me company. Please be patient with me if it takes a little longer to get a reply to your next text message.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Chickenbus
Gringos in Guatemala (and other parts of Latin America? I don’t know) refer to the second-class buses that criss-cross the country, stuffed to the gills and spewing exhaust, as “chickenbuses,” presumably because the passengers bring along anything and everything, including sometimes chickens. I haven’t seen any chickens, but maybe that’s because of the route I’ve taken.
The buses are mostly retired school buses from the U.S. Some of them have been repainted in bright colors; others have been painted on the front to indicate the routes, but still have the names of Midwestern school districts on the sides, which is a little disconcerting.
My ride from Xela to Panajachel on Friday afternoon was almost pleasant. It wasn’t too crowded when I got on, but by the time we got to Cuatro Caminos, the first major junction less than half an hour from Xela, there were no empty seats, at least the way I count. Having been built for children, and now serving a population that for the most part is not very tall, the leg room left something to be desired. But aside from that, it wasn’t uncomfortable, and it cost me about $3 for the 2 ½ hour trip. Hard to complain.
The most interesting part of the ride for me was seeing the variety of food available to buy. At almost every stop, vendors would get on the bus and walk up and down the aisle, calling out what they had for sale. Sometimes the bus would keep going, and they’d get off a little down the road, presumably to get back on another bus going in the other direction. My favorites were chicklets and hard candies, sold by the piece (one quetzal for 4); ice cream cones, which somehow were not melting; and boxes of chicken from Pollo Campero, a popular chain here—presumably the vendors had gone to a branch and bought a bunch of boxes, just to sell them on the bus.
On the way back, I didn’t know what time the buses left, so after lunch I just headed for the bus stop in Panajachel. As I arrived at the corner, there were several guys advertising their buses. I said I was going to Xela, and was immediately taken to an empty bus, which the driver said would leave in about 20 minutes. I settled into my seat, very pleased that it was so easy, and started reading my book. The bus filled up pretty quickly and we were off.
After about ten minutes, we came to a stop. I didn’t pay much attention, but after a few minutes it became clear that there was a line of traffic, none of it moving. I heard the ticket-taker tell a passenger that there was an accident ahead of us. After another ten or fifteen minutes, it became clear that we weren’t going anywhere; everyone had to get off the bus and walk past the accident (a bus and a pickup, it turned out) to get on other buses. OK, I can handle this.
But the bus beyond the accident only went as far as Sololá, the next town (actually the departmental capital) about 20 minutes up the road. From Sololá, I caught another bus to Los Encuentros, the town where the main East-West highway meets the road down to Lake Atitlán. And then from Los Encuentros, I could finally get a bus to Xela. Remarkably, I didn’t have to wait more than five minutes at any of the transfer points. On the bus to Xela, however, I learned what a full bus was. We were packed three to a seat (four if you count the nursing baby next to me); since I was on the aisle, I had one cheek on the seat and one off. For much of the ride, there were also people standing in the aisle, even though there really didn’t seem to be room, what with the third person in each sticking out into the aisle. For the next hour and a half or so, I sat like that as the bus went a little too fast up and down mountains and around a lot of curves, throwing me back and forth into the people on either side of me as I tried to hold on to whatever handles I could reach.
It wasn’t a terrible experience. I’m glad I did it, and I’m proud that I was able to negotiate the last-minute change of plans without freaking out (and in Spanish!). But next week, when I set off on the longer trip back to Guatemala City, with more luggage, I’ll be on a shuttle—I nice van that will pick me up at my door and take me directly to my hotel, accompanied by four or five other people.
The buses are mostly retired school buses from the U.S. Some of them have been repainted in bright colors; others have been painted on the front to indicate the routes, but still have the names of Midwestern school districts on the sides, which is a little disconcerting.
My ride from Xela to Panajachel on Friday afternoon was almost pleasant. It wasn’t too crowded when I got on, but by the time we got to Cuatro Caminos, the first major junction less than half an hour from Xela, there were no empty seats, at least the way I count. Having been built for children, and now serving a population that for the most part is not very tall, the leg room left something to be desired. But aside from that, it wasn’t uncomfortable, and it cost me about $3 for the 2 ½ hour trip. Hard to complain.
The most interesting part of the ride for me was seeing the variety of food available to buy. At almost every stop, vendors would get on the bus and walk up and down the aisle, calling out what they had for sale. Sometimes the bus would keep going, and they’d get off a little down the road, presumably to get back on another bus going in the other direction. My favorites were chicklets and hard candies, sold by the piece (one quetzal for 4); ice cream cones, which somehow were not melting; and boxes of chicken from Pollo Campero, a popular chain here—presumably the vendors had gone to a branch and bought a bunch of boxes, just to sell them on the bus.
On the way back, I didn’t know what time the buses left, so after lunch I just headed for the bus stop in Panajachel. As I arrived at the corner, there were several guys advertising their buses. I said I was going to Xela, and was immediately taken to an empty bus, which the driver said would leave in about 20 minutes. I settled into my seat, very pleased that it was so easy, and started reading my book. The bus filled up pretty quickly and we were off.
After about ten minutes, we came to a stop. I didn’t pay much attention, but after a few minutes it became clear that there was a line of traffic, none of it moving. I heard the ticket-taker tell a passenger that there was an accident ahead of us. After another ten or fifteen minutes, it became clear that we weren’t going anywhere; everyone had to get off the bus and walk past the accident (a bus and a pickup, it turned out) to get on other buses. OK, I can handle this.
But the bus beyond the accident only went as far as Sololá, the next town (actually the departmental capital) about 20 minutes up the road. From Sololá, I caught another bus to Los Encuentros, the town where the main East-West highway meets the road down to Lake Atitlán. And then from Los Encuentros, I could finally get a bus to Xela. Remarkably, I didn’t have to wait more than five minutes at any of the transfer points. On the bus to Xela, however, I learned what a full bus was. We were packed three to a seat (four if you count the nursing baby next to me); since I was on the aisle, I had one cheek on the seat and one off. For much of the ride, there were also people standing in the aisle, even though there really didn’t seem to be room, what with the third person in each sticking out into the aisle. For the next hour and a half or so, I sat like that as the bus went a little too fast up and down mountains and around a lot of curves, throwing me back and forth into the people on either side of me as I tried to hold on to whatever handles I could reach.
It wasn’t a terrible experience. I’m glad I did it, and I’m proud that I was able to negotiate the last-minute change of plans without freaking out (and in Spanish!). But next week, when I set off on the longer trip back to Guatemala City, with more luggage, I’ll be on a shuttle—I nice van that will pick me up at my door and take me directly to my hotel, accompanied by four or five other people.
Half Done
This weekend marks the midpoint of my Guatemalan adventure. Seven days ago, I was just arriving in Xela after a quick weekend as a tourist in Antigua, meeting my hosts and unpacking. In seven more days, I’ll be having Father’s Day dinner with my grandfather in Miami. While I’m very glad I’m here, I admit I am looking forward to going home.
The school part of my stay has been great so far. My teacher, Pablo, does a great job of talking, getting me to talk, correcting me enough that I learn but not so much that I give up in frustration, and getting in the grammatical points that are in our curriculum. He’s also a really interesting person, and we have things in common—it would be nice if we could have a conversation in a language we both spoke comfortably.
I have mixed feelings about the homestay component. On the one hand, I have two more people that I talk to every day, and they too are interesting people. And the cost of accommodation doing it this way is insanely low. Por otro lado, I don’t really have that much to say to Maria and Eduardo; we don’t have much in common. In a strange way, staying in someone’s home, but not really interacting with them except at mealtimes, is more lonely that being on my own in a hotel room. On balance, I think I’m glad I’m doing a homestay, if for no other reason than that it has forced me to interact with two more Guatemalans besides Pablo. But if I do it again, I’ll probably choose to spend a little more money for a hotel room with an internet connection.
The school part of my stay has been great so far. My teacher, Pablo, does a great job of talking, getting me to talk, correcting me enough that I learn but not so much that I give up in frustration, and getting in the grammatical points that are in our curriculum. He’s also a really interesting person, and we have things in common—it would be nice if we could have a conversation in a language we both spoke comfortably.
I have mixed feelings about the homestay component. On the one hand, I have two more people that I talk to every day, and they too are interesting people. And the cost of accommodation doing it this way is insanely low. Por otro lado, I don’t really have that much to say to Maria and Eduardo; we don’t have much in common. In a strange way, staying in someone’s home, but not really interacting with them except at mealtimes, is more lonely that being on my own in a hotel room. On balance, I think I’m glad I’m doing a homestay, if for no other reason than that it has forced me to interact with two more Guatemalans besides Pablo. But if I do it again, I’ll probably choose to spend a little more money for a hotel room with an internet connection.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Un Día en Quetzaltenango
Three days into my Quetzalteco adventure, and I have developed something of a routine:
Upon my arrival, Maria explained to me that I should shower at 7:00am, and breakfast is at 7:30. And so that’s what I do. At about 7:45, I depart for the seven-minute walk to La Democracia Spanish School, giving me time to do a quick email check on my iPhone with the school’s wifi. From 8:00 to 1:00, Pablo and I talk—I let him lead the conversation, which goes back and forth between explaining grammatical points and talking about whatever comes up. He talks more than I do, which is fine with me. There’s a break from 10:30 to 11:00, when I get some instant coffee, check my email, maybe the NYTimes.com headlines and Facebook, and chat a little with Joel and David, two of the other students. So far, I haven’t said more than hello to Jennifer the fourth student.
At 1:00, I walk back to Maria & Eduardo’s house for lunch at 1:30. Lunch is the big meal here. Eduardo works until 2:15, so they don’t eat with me; instead Maria serves me, and we chat a little while I eat. I feel a little weird about this set-up, but she seems happy with it. Lunch today was chicken wings with barbecue sauce and a vegetable I had never heard of (whose name I have already forgotten). Yesterday was a little more traditionally Guatemalteco, pork with white beans. Maria prefers tamalitos to tortillas, so that’s what we have.
After lunch, I retreat to my room, read a little, and take a little nap. Siesta is a wonderful thing. When I’m ready, I venture out to see the sites. Monday and Tuesday, I walked around the center of town with no particular destination. Today, I headed up the hill just south of town toward Iglesia Christo Viene, a church with a huge sign, visible from el centro, reading—you guessed it—Christo Viene. Picture a cheaper, more religious version of the Hollywood sign. I didn’t go into the church; I was in it for the view from the hillside.
After my explorations, it’s time for coffee and internet. Monday I went to a place called “coffee shop,” which was fine, but didn’t excite me. Yesterday, I found “& Café,” right on the central square, a very modern, American-style chain that I had also found in Antigua. I went back today, and may make it my daily hangout. It has decent coffee and sweets and fast, reliable wifi; and I got a bit of a gay vibe from the staff and some of the customers. Maybe I stumbled onto Xela’s gay hangout.
After an hour or two of coffee and internet, it’s time to make the 20-minute walk back home. La cena is at 7:30, consisting of coffee for Maria and Eduardo (water for me, I can’t drink coffee at night) and a light snack. Yesterday was ham and cheese sandwiches; the day before was quesadillas; today was hot dogs. After la cena, I’m back in my room to do my homework (so far, write a paragraph or two per night), write blog posts, and read. I finished The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo; now I’m getting into Daughter’s Keeper, by Ayelet Waldman, whom I sort of know. I think I have enough books to get me through the next ten days.
Upon my arrival, Maria explained to me that I should shower at 7:00am, and breakfast is at 7:30. And so that’s what I do. At about 7:45, I depart for the seven-minute walk to La Democracia Spanish School, giving me time to do a quick email check on my iPhone with the school’s wifi. From 8:00 to 1:00, Pablo and I talk—I let him lead the conversation, which goes back and forth between explaining grammatical points and talking about whatever comes up. He talks more than I do, which is fine with me. There’s a break from 10:30 to 11:00, when I get some instant coffee, check my email, maybe the NYTimes.com headlines and Facebook, and chat a little with Joel and David, two of the other students. So far, I haven’t said more than hello to Jennifer the fourth student.
At 1:00, I walk back to Maria & Eduardo’s house for lunch at 1:30. Lunch is the big meal here. Eduardo works until 2:15, so they don’t eat with me; instead Maria serves me, and we chat a little while I eat. I feel a little weird about this set-up, but she seems happy with it. Lunch today was chicken wings with barbecue sauce and a vegetable I had never heard of (whose name I have already forgotten). Yesterday was a little more traditionally Guatemalteco, pork with white beans. Maria prefers tamalitos to tortillas, so that’s what we have.
After lunch, I retreat to my room, read a little, and take a little nap. Siesta is a wonderful thing. When I’m ready, I venture out to see the sites. Monday and Tuesday, I walked around the center of town with no particular destination. Today, I headed up the hill just south of town toward Iglesia Christo Viene, a church with a huge sign, visible from el centro, reading—you guessed it—Christo Viene. Picture a cheaper, more religious version of the Hollywood sign. I didn’t go into the church; I was in it for the view from the hillside.
After my explorations, it’s time for coffee and internet. Monday I went to a place called “coffee shop,” which was fine, but didn’t excite me. Yesterday, I found “& Café,” right on the central square, a very modern, American-style chain that I had also found in Antigua. I went back today, and may make it my daily hangout. It has decent coffee and sweets and fast, reliable wifi; and I got a bit of a gay vibe from the staff and some of the customers. Maybe I stumbled onto Xela’s gay hangout.
After an hour or two of coffee and internet, it’s time to make the 20-minute walk back home. La cena is at 7:30, consisting of coffee for Maria and Eduardo (water for me, I can’t drink coffee at night) and a light snack. Yesterday was ham and cheese sandwiches; the day before was quesadillas; today was hot dogs. After la cena, I’m back in my room to do my homework (so far, write a paragraph or two per night), write blog posts, and read. I finished The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo; now I’m getting into Daughter’s Keeper, by Ayelet Waldman, whom I sort of know. I think I have enough books to get me through the next ten days.
Vos
I studied Spanish for a couple of years in high school; lately I’ve been studying a grammar text and listening to podcasts aimed at teaching Spanish. All of them say that there are two translations of the word “you”: usted and tú. Why do none of them mention “vos,” the familiar you used in much of Latin America? I asked Pablo about vos today, and he explained as follows: People use usted with their parents or other people much older than they, or in very formal situations (ok, I knew that). Chicas use tú with each other, and chicos use tú when talking to chicas. Chicos, when talking to each other, always use vos; in Guatemala, the only time two chicos would use tú with each other is if they’re gay. Wow! All these years, textbooks and teachers have been teaching me how to talk gay! (Apparently this is the case only in Guatemala.)
Pablo was very matter of fact in the way he told me this, and didn’t seem to be making any judgments about the gays. He’s an educated guy, with clearly lefty politics (today he was wearing a shirt that said “revolucion” in big letters, and spoke with some pride of his public university’s reputation for producing revolutionaries). And yet I didn’t feel comfortable saying, “I’m gay!” Maybe he’s figured it out already (we’ve already covered the fact that I’m still soltero, and I’m clearly older than him). Or maybe he hasn’t, and if he knew, he’d totally freak out. I’m not ready to find out yet. I’m enjoying our conversations every morning, and don’t want to risk ruining them, even though it means retreating to the closet for a couple of weeks. Perhaps I’ll find a way to work it into conversation during the last couple of days, and see how he reacts. Meanwhile, he says it’s fine for teachers and students to use tú with each other, even if we’re both guys, but he was very impressed when I threw in a vos later in the conversation.
Pablo was very matter of fact in the way he told me this, and didn’t seem to be making any judgments about the gays. He’s an educated guy, with clearly lefty politics (today he was wearing a shirt that said “revolucion” in big letters, and spoke with some pride of his public university’s reputation for producing revolutionaries). And yet I didn’t feel comfortable saying, “I’m gay!” Maybe he’s figured it out already (we’ve already covered the fact that I’m still soltero, and I’m clearly older than him). Or maybe he hasn’t, and if he knew, he’d totally freak out. I’m not ready to find out yet. I’m enjoying our conversations every morning, and don’t want to risk ruining them, even though it means retreating to the closet for a couple of weeks. Perhaps I’ll find a way to work it into conversation during the last couple of days, and see how he reacts. Meanwhile, he says it’s fine for teachers and students to use tú with each other, even if we’re both guys, but he was very impressed when I threw in a vos later in the conversation.
Perspective
I spent the weekend before my little trip to Guatemala at my friends Jim and George’s beautiful house in East Hampton. I had a great time, and would love to go again soon (are you reading this, Jim?). But I must confess to a little bit of envy while I was there, seeing so many people, including my good friends, who have such a nice house that I could not come close to affording, and probably never will. I know that my inability to have such things is the direct result of decisions I’ve made, and I don't regret those decisions (most of the time), but there it is. Living in New York, I am constantly reminded that there are so many things I can’t afford, even though I make (or at least made until recently) a very good living by most standards.
Well, there’s nothing like a few days in a developing country to put things in perspective! Thank you, Guatemala, for reminding me how spoiled I really am.
One of the great things about this trip, and this kind of trip, is that I am actually talking to real Guatemaltecos every day. I have spent the last three days conversing with my teacher, Pablo, and while studying the difference between the preterite and the imperfect and memorizing irregular verb forms, I’m also learning a lot about him. Pablo is 28, a graduate of the University of San Carlos, Guatemala’s most prestigious university. He graduated in law, and is studying for the equivalent of the bar exam here. His family comes from a village near the Mexican border, where they have some land and a home, and they also have a home in what sounds like a pretty exclusive area in Xela. His brother is studying to be a doctor. In short, he is comfortably middle class, upper middle class even. And yet, the only foreign country he has been to is Mexico; he’s never been on an airplane. When the topic of rent came up, he guessed that I paid somewhere around $500/month; I told him I paid considerably more, and left it at that. These are just a couple of examples, but I am embarrassed to let him know just how much more I have than him—all simply because I had the foresight to be born to the right people in the right place.
Well, there’s nothing like a few days in a developing country to put things in perspective! Thank you, Guatemala, for reminding me how spoiled I really am.
One of the great things about this trip, and this kind of trip, is that I am actually talking to real Guatemaltecos every day. I have spent the last three days conversing with my teacher, Pablo, and while studying the difference between the preterite and the imperfect and memorizing irregular verb forms, I’m also learning a lot about him. Pablo is 28, a graduate of the University of San Carlos, Guatemala’s most prestigious university. He graduated in law, and is studying for the equivalent of the bar exam here. His family comes from a village near the Mexican border, where they have some land and a home, and they also have a home in what sounds like a pretty exclusive area in Xela. His brother is studying to be a doctor. In short, he is comfortably middle class, upper middle class even. And yet, the only foreign country he has been to is Mexico; he’s never been on an airplane. When the topic of rent came up, he guessed that I paid somewhere around $500/month; I told him I paid considerably more, and left it at that. These are just a couple of examples, but I am embarrassed to let him know just how much more I have than him—all simply because I had the foresight to be born to the right people in the right place.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Quetzaltenango
It’s amazing how accustomed I’ve become to being connected to friends, family, news, acquaintances, noise, etc., all the time. In the course of a day, I rarely let a waking hour pass without checking my email, checking facebook, checking the news, texting a friend or two… In recent years, even when I’ve traveled to such places as Uganda or remote eastern Senegal, I have stayed in fancy hotels with internet connections, and spent my evenings catching up with the world.
And now here I sit in a home in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, not knowing quite what to do with myself sans wifi. My iPhone is at my side, so I know if anyone needs to reach me they can. I could even send texts or log onto the 3G network and get at my email, but with no income at the moment, I’m taking the fiscally responsible course and restraining myself. So this little update will be uploaded sometime tomorrow, I imagine, when I find a café with an internet connection.
I can’t quite say that I’m enjoying being cut off, but I think it’s good for me. I’m reading a lot (currently the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, which I’m enjoying more than I expected). I’m taking the time to write down my thoughts. It’s good to slow down and quiet one’s mind from time to time. Maybe I’ll even meditate.
For most of the day, my mind was anything but quiet. Being immersed in a foreign language is hard work. After spending the weekend in Antigua (Guatemala Lite), I arrived in Quetzaltenango/Xela Sunday night in time for dinner. My shuttle from Antigua brought me directly to my host family, Maria and Eduardo, a nice couple a little older than my parents (though they seem much older). There are no children in the house, but they have a big dog, Bucanero, and many birds, including a parrot, Francisco. Eduardo is friendly enough, but Maria does most of the talking. Lucky for me, she is used to foreigners, so she speaks very slowly. I almost always understand what she says, at least by the second time. If they speak any English, they haven’t let on—it’s all Spanish all the time.
Monday morning, Maria walked me to my first day at school, about 5 minutes away. The school, La Democracia, is in a house in a residential neighborhood. Students come and go each week, and each student has a teacher to herself or himself from 8:00am to 1:00pm. This week, there are only four students, so the house is not too busy. They expect more students next week.
My teacher, Pablo, is great. He is studying to take the exams to become a lawyer (kinda like the bar exam, I guess), so we have that in common. He promised to teach me words related to the law. When I told him I was an immigration lawyer, he told me about his mother and brother’s ordeals in getting visas to visit the U.S.—similar to the story I heard from Maria. Guatemaltecos, even educated middle class people, view getting a visa as basically a lottery. The immigration officers at the embassy have so much discretion that nobody can guess what their reasoning is for granting some applications and denying others. And everyone here knows all about los illegales in the U.S. and the Arizona law.
In the afternoon, I found my way to the Complejo Deportivo, where there is a nice 25-meter swimming pool. Unfortunately, it is open to the public only Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, and conflicts with my class time. I haven’t decided yet whether to try to rearrange my class schedule to allow me to swim a little while I’m here.
I’m not sure what to make of Xela. It certainly doesn’t have the charm of Antigua. The center of the city has some pretty buildings, and the central square is lovely, but most of the streets are not aesthetically pleasing. The surrounding area is beautiful, though, and you can almost always see the green mountains tower over the city in almost every direction. Stay tuned as I explore more over the next 10 days.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Guatemala Day 1
The first thing I saw of Guatemala upon my arrival yesterday was Guatemala City's La Aurora International Airport. Recently renovated and freshly cleaned of the coating of volcanic ash it received just over a week ago, La Aurora is shiny, modern, and clean. It is a much nicer airport than La Guardia, where I had left a few hours earlier. Of course, "nicer than La Guardia" is not exactly high praise; I suppose it says more about New York than about Guatemala to observe that the capital of such a poor country is served by a prettier airport than the capital of the world.
I didn't see much of Guatemala City, but what I saw did not seem like a developing country. The road from the airport toward Antigua, my destination for the weekend, seems to run through the wealthiest neighborhoods, passing mile after mile of new car dealers, shopping malls, and fast food joints (I lost count of how many McDonald's I passed). One reminder that I was in the developing world was the buses: Among all the fancy cars in the bumper-to-bumper traffic were standard-issue hand-me-down buses, some of them painted in bright mosaics, some faded red, overflowing with passengers and spewing exhaust fumes, just like the buses in Bangkok, Manila, and countless other cities across the developing world.
The other reminder was the traffic. According to everything I read before my arrival, the trip from La Aurora to Antigua should have taken between 45 minutes and an hour. After 45 minutes, I was still within walking distance of the airport, and it took almost two more hours to reach my destination.
It was almost 10pm by the time I got settled at the Hotel Casa Cristina, so I put off my exploration of Antigua until this morning. I found a beautiful little town with cobblestone streets lined with quaint old buildings renovated and painted bright colors, all surrounded by stunning green mountains. It feels almost as if I've arrived in Disney's LatinLand.
This afternoon, I found my way to the market, off on the edge of town, which is always fun.
Tomorrow I'm off to Quetzaltenango (aka Xela), where I'm scheduled to spend two weeks studying Spanish and living with a local family. I'm a little anxious about living with strangers for two weeks, so I keep reminding myself that I did the same thing in Paris 23 years ago. If I could handle it at 18, I can handle it now, right?
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